Sore Point
by Belen09
Summary: As head of the Weapons Development Division of Starfleet, Commander Malcolm Reed knew that his strength lie in his expertise, and not particularly his interpersonal skills. So he was surprised and irritated when an unfamiliar captain pointedly asked him why he was flouting regulations.


Sore Point

As head of the Weapons Development Division of Starfleet, Commander Malcolm Reed knew that his strength lie in his expertise, and not particularly his interpersonal skills. So he was both surprised and irritated when an unfamiliar captain asked him pointedly why he was flouting regulations.

OOOOO

(A.N. – Just a little something that was hiding on my computer – not very satisfied with it, but . . .)

It had been six years after his service on the Enterprise and Commander (and by rumor soon-to-be captain) Malcolm Reed had found his life to have taken a very predicable turn . . . as one of the premier weapons designers in this quadrant of the galaxy, his expertise was valued, and he was now head of the Weapons Development Division of Starfleet.

He was also reasonably certain that his weapons systems if not his name was commented on by various alien cultures – in particular the Klingons and the Romulans . . . even the Vulcans had acknowledged his attention to the matter of offensive and defensive systems. Malcolm Reed was a very attentive and careful man. Which was why, when a certain Captain Foster cornered him one day in the laboratory, and asked him what he considered a personal question, it both surprised and irritated the commander.

Reed had been running a tactical simulation involving a new type of shielding when he noticed an unknown captain approaching him – at least unknown as far as the man's name – Malcolm thought he may have seen the man in the Officer's Mess, but he was sure that he had never spoken to him before. As was his wont, the tactical officer (both by trade and personality) had contact normally with limited personnel. Idle conversation about weapon systems was something of a conversation 'killer', and Reed never was one for working in the topic of 'bomb yields' at meals.

So it was a bit surprising when an unknown captain entered the lab, and made a beeline toward him; the man had a look 'about him' that Malcolm tried to tamp down in his own reaction. He knew that judging people by first impressions was a habit of his that had both good and bad outcomes. 'Wait Malcolm', he thought, 'Give this captain the attention due his rank, though he looks a bit, 'odd' 'unsettled' and not someone he would voluntarily speak with.'

"Commander Reed, I need to speak with you," the unknown captain began, then continued without a break to allow for Malcolm to acknowledge his presence. "I believe that you have committed a breach in protocol regarding ". . . then the man quoted a section of the administrative manual regarding the wearing of jewelry whilst 'on duty'.

"To which 'article of jewelry' are you referring to – sir?" The 'sir' was given a particular intonation – which certain officers had accused Reed of using to insult them, often unwarranted. This time, however, the intended insult was present, as Malcolm knew that he was wearing only one 'article of jewelry', namely the wedding ring that his late husband, Commander Tucker had given him, years ago.

"Why sir, the wearing of that ring on your finger – you are listed as not being married," replied the seemingly (and actually) clueless captain, whom Reed remembered now as named Foster. (Sometimes it took some time for a person's name to 'surface' in Malcolm's memory. Important facts he could call from 'the ether'; unimportant people's names didn't rate critical memory storage.)

"Is that what you do all day, checking to see whether officers are married? Perhaps you should spend more time checking your navel to see if there is 'lint built up' – I was married for years to someone who died . . . Good-bye, Captain Foster, and don't let the door hit your large arse on the way out. It mars the finish, and apple-polishing just to appease twits like you is a complete waste of my time!" roared Malcolm Reed, who had warmed to the idea of insulting this officious example of authority. Inadvertent observers (i.e. Laboratory assistants, both Starfleet and civilian) wondered if they were going to have to 'hide a body' in the acid recycling system, but Reed calmed down quickly. Wasting time and energy on a fool was in itself foolish

(Reed usually was quite polite to visitors of all types – even those who asked amazingly inane questions. And rude questions didn't seem to normally faze him either. But the topic of Commander Charles Tucker . . . that complete non-starter was covered in depth for any prospective 'lab assistant' – "Yes, the commander was married at one time . . . but if you value working with the man, and his top-notch team, do not ever bring up the subject. Malcolm Reed could easily 'ruin your life', and not just professionally, if you 'get my drift'. Research 'Commander Charles Tucker III' in the Starfleet database, and you'll understand . . ." and the 'would be' assistant usually would 'do their research' and come to the same conclusion. Commander Tucker, an absolute genius in warp technology, died because a very lax crewman failed to perform basic maintenance; it was sad, everyone agreed, and resulted in Tucker's death. The person in question was 'booted' off the Enterprise – but it didn't bring back the commander . . .)

Captain Foster amazingly 'took the hint' and hurried out of the weapon's facility. He, however, had the misfortune of complaining to one Admiral Jonathan Archer . . . the details of which encounter need not be explained in this narrative, other than the 'cold-weather testing' facility where the alien (and deadly) creatures had been found years before, soon had a new officer named 'Captain Foster'. (Foster had been 'an irritation' before to many, but none had bothered to do much about it until this incident.)

The 'moral' might well be that 'a problem will remain a problem unless taken care of properly', or until someone gets pissed off about it enough . . .

OOOOO

(At one place I worked I was actually asked that question (though I was polite nonetheless) and another place did have an acid recycling system where we 'lowlifes' speculated about dissolving 'bodies' to pass the time. Security types have 'bad' senses of humor.)


End file.
